Vigilante Criminality: The Burning Sands of Time
by LostCompass
Summary: There are those who would have the world rise anew from the ashes, unscarred by its past mistakes. Much more commonly, there are those who would leave the world in its grave and stomp out the embers. Blood, gunsmoke, and ash make one hell of a cocktail.
1. The Organ Trail

Fallout belongs to Bethesda, Obsidian, Black Isle... but not me.

* * *

Up and down, the coin was flipped again and again, shining a bright silver in the lamplight.

"I _can't_ fucking believe this." He could, actually. That was probably what pissed him off more than anything, though the situation at hand was one hell of a runner-up.

Stockholm watched, with a melange of disgust and disdain, at the hole the two 'Great' Khans were digging. Fuck all, it wasn't even a very good hole, and Stockholm had put enough holes in things to know a decent hole when he saw one.

"They say seeing is believing, baby, so off with those midnight shades- you're looking at the king of New Vegas."

Off went the sunglasses, only so Stockholm could stare Ben right in the eye. But without them, the sickly neon glare from New Vegas far in the distance made him squint a bit. "King? King?" That pissed Stockholm off enough to throw his sunglasses off into the night. "You think you're a king now, Big Ben? You think you can live off the spark and flint of that shithole? Didn't you learn _anything?_"

"Good enough, Benny?" One of the Khans asked mildly, gesturing at the gash in the ground with a rusted, bent shovel.

"Six feet under, Murph, and do I mean _under,_" Ben said coolly without breaking eyes from Stockholm. "Vegas has been rolling hot like rigged slots ever since you rode off into the sunrise, Stocking, baby. But you're the coolest cat I know-"

"_Knew_," Stockholm cut in flatly. They called him Benny now? Fuck's sake. You don't intimidate raiders with a name like that.

"-Now I'm sure as shine you're gonna want a cut of this juicy pie, once we catch up. We've got everything, now. Food, water, chems, guns, girls aplenty-"

"All of that will go away." A boot to the ribs told Stockholm that the body in the dust didn't have anything to add to the conversation. "Like it always fucking does. Food and water run dry. Flesh gets old and dies. Guns break. That was what made the Boot Riders rise _above_, damn it. That you didn't ease the blow or stop short for fucking anything. Always on guard, at a half-cock around the fucking clock. And now," Stockholm couldn't bear to look at that nauseating checkered suit, so instead glared at the crumpled corpse at their feet- "Your edge is duller than those fucking shovels."

The two once-tribesmen stared at each other in silence, the fury so thick in the air those Khans couldnt've cut through with their shovels even if they were sharpened. Finally, one of them cleared his throat, leaning on his shovel impatiently. With one last long, loaded look at Stockholm, Big Ben- Benny- walked around the makeshift grave, getting an eyeful, and then rolled the body into the hole with a well-placed kick. As the corpse flopped in, Stockholm noted the two holes in the forehead, the wide, surprised eyes. _Well, at least those holes were placed properly enough. _

It took the Great Khans-_ grating cunts, a more fitting name,_ Stockholm thought coldly- no time at all to finish their work, and it was only after the two were patting down the dirt that one asked pointedly why they had brought three shovels if Big Be- Benny wasn't going to lift a finger.

"_Somebody's_ got to supervise!" the checkered man said, and with a clap of his hands, off the party went, lamps in hand, leaving Stockholm in the dark. As Benny brushed shoulders with Stockholm, he said quietly, "Fifteen years. A dog'd wait for you, maybe, but_ I_ ain't a dog, and you ain't a dad."

Stockholm stood there, alone, staring at the fan of light reaching up to touch the sky. New Vegas. Less than twenty years before, this place didn't even have a name. Not even 'Mojave Wasteland', like those Goodsprings settlers called it. It was just sand, dust, and misery.

What the fuck had _happened?_

He sighed. That question could be answered on a better day. He reached into the breast pocket of his field jacket for those beloved sunglasses-

And then kicked the blank, wooden gravemarker right out of the cemetery. _Fuck._ His best ones, too.

* * *

So down the dirt path back into Goodsprings. He'd circle around, he thought, comb the sand and rock a bit- he couldn't have thrown it that far, strong as he is- when suddenly Stockholm pumped into an abnormally large refrigerator. On wheels.

Except that refrigerators aren't wheeled about in this part of Nevada, and especially not on Sundays. In the space of a heartbeat and a blink, Stockholm had hopped back and drawn his Colt Anaconda, hammer already cocked. But in that time, he had heard the click-clack of metal and the sound of a gatling gun revving up.

The two duelists stared each other down for a long, dirty second before the whirring stopped. "'Scuse me kindly, partner. Didn't mean to bowl ya over, there, no sir. Darker than an oil-dipped crow in a '49 shaft, yes sir."

Stockholm ran his eyes down the refrigerator-bot, and holstered his revolver upon confirming that this twang-tongued fellow was, in fact, not a a refrigerator. He hated the things. Lined with lead, just asking for cancer. Almost hated them as much as robots in general. "No mistakes were made," he murmured quietly, giving the machine a wide berth and a wary glance as it rolled its way up to the cemetery. A robot undertaker, huh? Well, Stockholm had seen some oddities in his short and relatively uneventful life, so what was one more?

Gun holstered as it was, he caressed the hammer involuntarily as he began his search of the sands 'round the graveyard for his sunglasses.

The west had _changed._

And, frustratingly enough, there was usually only one way to keep something from changing.

Even more frustratingly, Stockholm thought as he dusted the sand off his killing glasses and pushed them back onto his nose, he would have to be the one to drive the bullet home.

* * *

_So many goodnatured, pure-spirited protagonists out there. Well, Stockholm is anything but that. You might notice I've used this character before- and it's the same idea. Whether he meets the Not-So-Lone Wanderer this far west, now that's to be seen._

_I'll keep the chapters short and to the point. How Stockholm likes most things.  
_

.

.

.


	2. Buy Low, Sell High, Exit Left

Stockholm squinted into the distance, the high noon sun throwing heat waves as far as his eyes could see. He knew about how an overactive imagination was just a one-way ticket to wasted ammo, jammed guns, a blown position and a quick roast over some raider cookfire, but even so...

A sand dune slowly, ponderously, moved. Like some kind of deep-sea abomination of mucus glands and suckers, it rolled right over the cracked road and back into the sea of the desert. It was only when it was almost out of sight did Stockholm notice a tightly-curled stinger, unfurling from the dune like a blue sail.

That was one _gigantic_ fucking scorpion.

"What in the fuck was that?"

"A mirage. Stop breathing through your mouth. Gums'll dry out," Steppe said casually around the broc flower petals he was constantly chewing. His teeth were dyed a shade of orange that would give the cheapest whore a second thought, healthy as the flowers were.

Loosening the death grip on his revolver, Stockholm sighed and turned to give his traveling companion a long, hard look. Bastard was old- but everyone aged badly out here. Covered in scars and burns from head to toe- but who wasn't, in this job market? Only thing that stood out, really, were his eyes- watery and squinted and flanked by wrinkled crinkles as they were, they were clear and honest- though not what you'd call kind. Kindness didn't get you far in the wasteland. Or anywhere, if you asked Stockholm.

"Got somethin' on m' face, or ya lookin' for a busted mouth? Didn't bring ya 'long to make me feel pretty."

Stockholm rolled his eyes, looking back to the road stretching on into the swirling, dense dust. He sure fucking loved walking. Nothing better on those wartorn joints. "Tell me about the Jackals."

Steppe grunted, spat out a wad of chewed-out broc, and stuffed another handful of rust-colored petals into his mouth. "Shallow-knuckle pussies playing at cutthroat in the dirt. Nothing I can't handle. So, nothing you can't handle."

"They wouldn't be a known raider band if they were small-time. What was it- infighting? Clan wars? Mercs, bounts?"

"None of the above. _NCR._"

"The NCR." With his good eye, Stockholm looked as far as he could into the dust- but seeing only monsters and madness in those frantic swirls, he left the scouting to Steppe. "Tell me about them."

Goodsprings was a dead end. After watching Big Ben (Benny, what kind of name is that- not respectable at all) saunter off into the night with his Khan bootlickers, all Stockholm knew was that New Vegas had to fall, and the Khans with it. But without knowing what had happened in the past fifteen years put him at a steep disadvantage, and what he learned at the Goodsprings saloon was barely enough to scuff his spurs at.

"Come for a drink?" the narrow-faced woman tending the counter had briskly asked. From the faint smell of gunpowder hanging in the air, Stockholm guessed she acted as both bouncer and bartender.

"A drink from the good springs of knowledge, if you would."

Her brow furrowed, making her receding hairline look even more like an ironing board. "No trouble here." Less of a statement than it was a threat.

Holding up his empty hands, Stockholm smiled- an ugly thing to see- and gave an innocent shrug. "A justice-minded man asks for leads in a saloon. That doesn't sound like the start of a firefight to me."

For all the information he strained out, he may has well have let a firefight blaze so he'd have an excuse to sell scalps and teeth. The bartender- Trudy, not that he'd remember given a day- directed him to a huntress by the name of Sunny Smiles- he'd make_ sure _to forget that one- who told him just about everything he already knew.

"Allow me to review this- the Jackals, Vipers, and Fiends are all cannibals, killers, thieves and chem pushers." He paused, waiting for Smiles to add something. Anything. "... Is that right?"

"That's right," she said, as if satisfied with giving Stockholm the least enlightening description of raiders he had ever heard. Yeah, he didn't tip her for that one.

So that's when Stockholm saw it fit to join the trail of Stepper, or just 'Steppe', a wandering trader who was passing through. Not as if the roads had changed- the paved ones, anyway- but most traders had a close bond with the wasteland that settlers couldn't begin to understand. Especially not the ones in Goodsprings who thought the Mojave's cruelty totaled to a nest of geckos and some withered maize.

"The NCR." Acronyms were never a good sign. Maybe this Steppe guy meant "no-see-'er"- sure as hell sounded like it, with that fucking cud in his mouth. "Tell me about them."

"Don't fuckin' repeat y'self, heard ya the first time." Steppe spat. More broc went between those orange, gangrenous teeth. Fucker didn't floss. Of coruse he didn't. "Mercs with a flag 'n uniform. Got guns and chems out the ass and can hold onto whatever settlement they take." He snorted. "Bad for business, but wiped out all competition. Ya get some, ya lose some."

Shit. He did mean the New California Republic. What the fuck were they doing this far west? Shit. "I _know_ that. Tell me about why they're in the Mojave."

"No, you _don't_ know that. If you did, you wouldn't ask the same fuckin' question _twice_. They're mercs. Where there's blood or work, they flock like shit-stained bloatflies in heat." He frowned. "That, 'n the Legion."

"_Lesion?_" Huh, Stockholm wouldnt've guessed this old fuck knew a word like that.

"Legion," Steppe belted out. "Raiders from the Colorado far side. Got uniforms and a lot of meat to throw into the grinder. No better than the NCR, though- bad for business unless you work for them only. Exclusive," he snarled, spitting the word out like poison.

Stockholm wiped the blob of spittle, broc, and poison from his shoulder. "Tell me about-"

"Enough fuckin' talk. _Shit,_ man. Half the reason I became a trader is because you fuckin' raiders just want to either talk tough or make tracks."

That gave Stockholm pause. "You think I'm a _raider_." He couldn't help but let a tiny, spiteful curl of amusement to the words.

"Don't think. _Know._ You want to know your competition, you've got teeth jingling in your pocket, y'teeth are red, and you've got guts on your breath. I'm a lot of things, but a fuckin' dumbass ain't one of them."

As bottlecaps and cigarettes were currency to the sane, teeth and scalps were the under-the-counter alternative. Stockholm smiled scornfully. "You don't say. I'd think otherwise, but that'd just be rude, wouldn't it?" The smile slipped away. "So why did you bring me out here, old man?"

"You wanted to learn about the Jackals. Here's your first lesson." Steppe threw his left arm straight up into the air, letting a handful of broc petals flutter away on the breeze. As soon as he did, Stockholm spotted a number of shapes moving on the northern ridge. Four hundred feet high. High noon. _Okay._

"Don't trust-" the sound of blood spurting out of his mouth cut him off as Steppe fell to the ground, clutching at his pierced throat. Stockholm vaulted over the pack Brahmin, using the bulk of the beast as cover against the raiders' gunfire.

Stockholm drew his Colt Anaconda, cutting his breaths into short, steady segments. He was out of his prime, but he still has his experience and skill. _Just had to con-_

The sound of blood bubbling and wet air being sucked in and out.

_Just had to concen-_

Gurgle, sputter, gurgle, sputter.

Stockholm drove his stiletto into Steppe chest four or five times (putting a hole or more in each lung) until he felt the bastard's heart give under the point of the knife. The old trader-raider's body fell slack, and Stockholm sighed in agitation.

Back in the day, blood used to make him shoot better. Now he could hardly stand the sight of it. The feel, the warmth of it, the taste- that was fine, but the _color_. The _red_. There was a _wrongness_ in it. Nothing was that red.

Peeking out of his cattle-cover, Stockholm spotted one, two Jackals moving down the ridge, trying to flank him. He could try and go for the AKM on his back, but...

No time. A bullet punched through the Brahmin's left head, sending it to its knees and spraying brain and blood across Stockholm's front. He hit the dirt and aimed fast, putting one .44 magnum bullet through a raider's belly (so much for leather armor) and another snapping his thigh in two. But as he did, the snipers on the ridge were steadying their shots, and a bullet snapped off one of the Brahmin's horns, lodging bony shrapnel in Stockholm's cheek.

"I fucking love it. I love this shit," he growled. Of course, it sounded like incoherent mumbling, thanks to a mouthful of blood and cowhorn. Stockholm drew his stiletto and jabbed in into the ribs of the pack animal; the Brahmin roared in pain, one side struggling to pull the other's dead weight. The beast of burden slowly, painfully limp-hopped its way under the shadow of the ridge, Stockholm pushing it all the while, his blade the reins.

"Good bovine-monstrosity," he whispered, patting the panting mutant on the head (and getting a pricked finger for it from the shattered horn), casually taking off the head of a Jackal who peeked too far over the lip of the ridge. The one-and-a-half headed cow collapsed against the cliff face, crumpling and dying quietly on its side. "Good boy."

As the Jackal's body hit the rocky gorge-bottom with a satisfying _thunksplatter_, Stockholm edged along the cliff face, revolver in hand. Come on, come on...

The screams of pain from the de-legged Jackal broke through Stockholm's concentration.

"_Fuck!_ You're already dead! Let the living _live, _for fuck's sake!" He put a round through the bastard's head, sighing contentedly at the silence. _Much better!_ And in that silence, he heard the scuffle of boots on sand and rock- the second sniper decided to come down and help out his buddies, the fuckhead. As if Stockholm wouldn't have heard him, screaming or not.

He dove out of the ridge's shade, into sight of the final raider. A stray bullet kicked up dust a good two feet away, and Stockholm gave himself a full, calm second to place the Jackal's throat in the Anaconda's ironsights. A bolt-action rifle, really. At this range? Could've at least gone with a semi-auto backup...

Bang. The man hit the dirt, clutching at a gaping hole in his neck. Stockholm helped himself to the carrion-feeder's loot- a few syrettes of morphine, an inhaler of turbo- as the fucker was still kicking.

"Chose the wrong side," Stockholm said, chuckling dryly.

_What a shitty final sight._ A nameless, wandering murderer, picking bare the bodies of your only friends in the wasteland, licking each spent magnum casing clean like a fucking psychopath.

_Well, I'm not completely heartless,_ thought Stockholm, running his tongue along the inside of his teeth, thoughtfully picking the gunpowder out of the gaps. He turned to the downed sniper. "My name is-"

The sniper laid still, though blood still bubbled from the throat wound. _Well, fuck. So much for that._

But with four scalps in his pocket and a mouthful of broc petals later, Stockholm had disappeared down the traveler's lane, dust in his wake and a skip in his step. By the end of this bullshit, he'd have enough scalps to make a damn fine smoking jacket.

* * *

_Had this sitting around, so I put it up._

_There's a thin line between a heroic villain and a villainous hero. And then there's the asshole who scribbles spitefully all over that line in permanent marker. Stockholm is that asshole._

.


	3. Best Made Plans aren't Planned at All

He drank deeply. He paused, frowned, and drank again- and coughed, wiping his mouth.

_Odd._ It tasted... different. More bitter, somehow. Well, it was only the first of five. Maybe this one was just... special.

* * *

"I am a very, very patient man, you know."

The Legionnaire strained against his binds, grunting as the cactus needles dug deeper into his skin. Stockholm watched with an odd curiosity as the man's droplets of blood and sweat began to mingle, running along his skin in swirling streams.

The young soldier gritted his teeth. "I have no words for you, _profligate_."

"Apparently, you do," noted Stockholm dryly as he began to whet his knife. Damn steel didn't hold an edge like it used to. Caesar's Legionnaires had tough and stringy flesh- while it was a pain to gut them now, they'd make for decent eating later. Having already skinned and gutted four of the scouting party's number, he moved on to their commanding officer, rather burly and scarred fellow. But to make things more convenient, Stockholm dragged the officer's corpse by the hair and dropped him in front of the bound soldier so he'd have a decent view. It's not every day you get to watch your superior be drawn and quartered, after all. It's most people's dream!

"Savage disgusting _animal_!" snarled the bound Legionnaire, eyes bulging from his sockets as Stockholm made a long, clean slice along the officer's belly. "You are _undoubtedly_ the lowest of dissolute I have ever had the displeasure of encountering!"

"And now he begins to talk." With a sigh, Stockholm began sawing into the sternum, careful not to cut the lungs. "You know, I'm disappointed. Really, I am. When I heard of these Legionnaires, following the example of a long-forgotten empire, I was intrigued. What was their motive? Their drive? Did they want knowledge? Peace? Justice?" The sternum finally gave with a splintering crackle, giving Stockholm access to the heart. Still twitching. Feeling a bit knawish, he slashed at the huge arteries and veined membrane until the organ came free.

"But no," Stockholm whispered, staring at that heart that fit so snugly in his hand. "They wanted to conquer, like any other common animal. Pathetic." He took a big bite of the heart, chewing on the elastic outer sac thoughtfully. "I remember when they first put boots on the ground. Arizona." Looking up intently, blood running down his face, soaking into his beard, eyes dead and lightless, Stockholm looked like a horror even radiation couldn't produce. "You don't even know where that is. And _I'm_ the profligate?"

The cactus the Legionnaire was tied to held fast, even as the young man thrashed. "I'll kill you!" he roared as blood pooled beneath him.

"No. You won't." Another bite. "I wiped out your party with five bullets." Five bullets and a knife, technically. "But if you did manage to kill me in this scenario, I'd be thoroughly impressed. Really, I would." A few inches of blood still remained in the empty chest cavity; couldn't let it go to waste. Stockholm dipped the heart in, took another bite, and washed it down with a cupped hand of blood- ugh, too salty. How nauseating. The red stuff had never tasted good to Stockholm- or anything that came from a human, really- but it kept him alive. Or gave him the illusion of it, anyway.

The soldier took a deep breath, collected himself, and squared his shoulders- to the best of his ability, anyway. He was tied to a cactus. "And_ if_ I die, profligate? It doesn't matter. For my death, ten will replace me. This worthless handful of sand will be hours, and you will be crucified. Your last breath-"

"Will be of me, begging for mercy? Is that it?" Stockholm chuckled. "You're determined. I like that. Keeps the meat taut." Stockholm finished field dressing the officer, plopping his unneeded organs at the captured Legionnaire's feet.

_"Cato Empiricus!"_ he declared, unfazed by being ankle-deep in writhing guts. "You'll be shrieking that name as they prop you up."

"And I can shriek all sorts of other things, too. But you'll have to tell me, first." Stockholm stood and went eye-to-eye with the young man, their noses almost touching. Cato's eyes were green. Forest green. Didn't see that often anymore. "Tell me where to find Sallow."

He paused, feeling the warm spit drip down his cheek. "Oh, very mature. Now, maybe that name isn't familiar. Caesar? Ah, yes, I see that bizarre, perverse lust in your eyes. Where can I find Caesar?"

The other cheek. Stockholm sighed and wiped his face with what used to be a Legionary tunic. "You really don't understand, boy. I want information, and you can't goad me into killing you. I'm going to keep you alive for a very, very long time. I will break your fingers and toes, one by one, by the knuckle. I will cut you, let your wounds heal, and cut you _again_. I will feed you just enough to keep you alive. In a week, after stagnating in your own piss and shit, you'll talk. They_ always_ do."

Even faced with that, the soldier didn't say a word or betray the slightest hint of fear. Just stared straight ahead, sweating under the Mojave sun.

With a shrug, Stockholm dragged the bodies of the had-been scouting party around him, and having already packed the worthwhile meat away, began prying out teeth from the severed heads. Bottle caps were all well and good, but between settlers and raiders, he really didn't have enough to barter. It was hard enough as it was, staying afloat with the NCR and Legion trying to monopolize the caravans. Even taking out an entire party of Legionnaires led to nothing truly saleworthy, just a few coins with that Sallow asshole on them- bastards didn't even carry rations, just foraged off the land. But Stockholm didn't let the anger get a hold of him- no, he simply popped out one tooth after another, letting the rhythm soothe his nerves. Maybe during all that time, that Cato kid was screaming or cursing at him, or uselessly wailing for help across the open dunes. If he did, Stockholm didn't notice.

* * *

Just over a hundred teeth later, Stockholm scanned the horizon and took a short nap under the shade of a rock, just because really- the man deserved it.

When he awoke, he chastised himself for spending so much time a single, unfortified location- really, he was getting lazy. Lazy and old. Lazy and old and ugly. Well, uglier. Couldn't be helped.

He circled around the rock formation he had chosen as his courtroom for the soldier, marveling at his luck for finding a cactus nearby, when he noticed that the soldier's head was drooped against his chest, and the dust on his legs was slightly wet. Really, now? It had only been, what, two hours? Sure, it was a hundred and ten degrees out here, but come on. That's prime Mojave sunbathing weather!

Of course, as he got closer, he noticed that the soldier's first layer of skin had been peeled away by the sand-studded wind, leaving him shiny and slightly bloody. Stockholm had to admit that even he hated it when that happened. "Okay," began Stockholm, stifling a yawn. "Let's try again. Where is Caesar?" He swatted away a family of bloatflies that were trying to lay eggs in the Cato's eyes and mouth. That'd be... interesting, but really not what was needed right now.

"You can't get to him."

"Let's say I could."

"You can't." The Legionnaire sounded like he had run a marathon. "The only way... the cove."

A cove? Wait... so that meant Caesar wasn't in the Mojave at all.

"And where is this cove?"

"East... _south_east. Shore of the river."

That's all Stockholm needed to know. He couldn't help but smile. "Thanks, Cat-boy. You've been a great help."

Cato didn't say a word, just hung there dejectedly. With a sigh, Stockholm slashed him across the throat, cutting cleanly through until he felt the grind of the vertebrae. The soldier kicked and struggled a little, maybe from surprise, or panic- so Stockholm put him out of his misery with a hard stab through the heart. He stopped moving shortly after that, and Stockholm untied the rope to add some more teeth and meat to his pack.

He was never going to leave him alive like that. He wasn't _cruel._

* * *

Only an hour after he had started moving southeast did Stockholm hear howling in the distance- good thing he left. He hated dogs. Especially the post-war dogs. Especially the post-war dogs that looked like they came out of a rattlesnake-coyote orgy and fell into a vat full of steroids.

In reality, that he had managed to take out an entire Legion scouting party by himself was pure luck. If the team had taken dogs along with them, he would've been a goner- no element of surprise, and he hated dogs, after all. He had tracked them all morning, waiting and waiting for them to travel into undefensible territory- and they did. A well-placed bullet from his Chinese support rifle was all it took to punch a hole through the officer's helmet- not very good worksmanship- and after that, the rest of the party fell apart. With no cover and no idea where the shots were coming from, they were did before they hit the sand. All but one- Cato- that rushed up the dune Stockholm had buried himself in and began stabbing down into the sand with his machete. One of those stabs almost went right through his neck, Stockholm though, rubbing at his throat- but again, luck was on his side. With a few kicks, punches and a draw of the knife, the kid was on his back and clutching at a slashed tendon. Easy. The idiots didn't even use guns. Just machetes and spears.

The jingle of teeth, the steady beat of his rifle against his back, the snugness of the revolver at his hip, the heat waves rising off the sand- it was all like a lullaby. He loved it. He hated that he loved it, but he fucking loved it. He- wait.

Stockholm stopped and slid into cover behind a long-dead tree. Peeking out, he saw the oddest thing- a quarter mile out, a pack of brahmin and a herd of bighorners staring each other down.

The alpha bighorner stared at the lead brahmin.

The lead brahmin stared at the alpha bighorner.

And then they rushed each other and started fucking in the middle of their respective herds. Fighting the urge to laugh and vomit simultaneously, Stockholm turned away, a hand clutched to his mouth.

A hand that smelled like blood.

Trying to block out the squishing noises and the braying and the mooing, Stockholm looked southeast, and wondered. First, the New California Republic, and now these machete-waving Legion idiots were moving into the Mojave. Things were worse than they looked... seems like wherever he went, the power vacuum got there first. Damn.

An exceptionally loud bray pierced the Mojave, nearly making Stockholm fall over in shock. The bighorner and brahmin fell apart in a heaving heap. Shit, that was... explosive. He felt the shockwave from there.

Well, Stockholm thought, all he had to do was get the NCR and Caesar to fuck each other. Fuck each other dead.

* * *

_Been a while since Stockholm has been doing stuff. It's nice to have two stories- one where the protagonist is a normal, humane, decent person, and another where the lead is a sociopathic maniac._


	4. By the Horns

_It's almost as if they understood._

_Maybe they did._

* * *

A sharp gust whipped across the face of the cliff, spraying red dust into Stockholm's panting mouth. He gasped for air, instead coughing violently and nearly losing his foothold.

"Fuck," he sputtered around a mouthful of rust-sand, shifting his fingers against the rock for a better grip, ignoring his splintering fingernails. He spat, licked at his gums, spat again, grimaced at the crunching between his teeth, and spat again.

Yeah, the Mojave really hadn't changed.

Squinting up into the noonday sun, Stockholm continued to scale the cliffside, his joints aching the entire time. He remembered being able to do this without an ounce of effort, without rope or hook, but now- he stopped, leaning his forehead against the sun-baked rock, catching his breath with ragged gasps- he was getting old. Really old. Most raiders were dead and their bones dust at half his age.

But he wasn't most raiders, really. But if he were, _oh_, what a_ luxury_ that would be.

In what felt like an eternity, Stockholm managed to claw his way to the top of the cliffside, flinching slightly as the wind hit him with full force as he coiled up his rope. But now, at least, was the easy part; Stockholm walked over to the other side of the cliff, and looked down.

He was disappointed, really. He had hoped the merchants and caravaners he had grilled for info were wrong, but...

Red Rock Canyon looked exactly the same as ten years ago- crudely built huts of assorted junk, a few cookfires being tended, bizarre yet meaningless totems of animal bones, meager plots of maize where pockets of dirt sat in the waves of stone. Looking to the right, he could see the mouth of the canyon where a dry moat has been dug, sharp stakes of rebar and broken glass driven into the bottom. But it was pathetic, really. He had stormed outposts better fortified than this. What the hell happened?

Well, time to find out.

Taking a deep breath- Stockholm had never liked heights, or the sudden stop at the end, for that matter- stepped off the side of the canyon and skidded his way down to the bottom, more than a hundred feet. He tore up a massive plume of red dust and was covered head-to-toe with the chalky stuff once he slid to horizontal earth again, but at least he stayed upright. Dusting off his once-purple longjacket, he walked a few feet and heavily sat down at a rather festive cookfire.

"'Sup."

The three Khans sprang off their asses faster than Stockholm expected. He was almost impressed. "Who the fuck are _you_?" one demanded, fumbling to draw his pistol, a dirty syringe dangling from his arm. The rest followed suit, but Stockholm was more concerned about how their aim wavered.

"You know, I've seen the ass end of enough Psycho to know that meth really isn't the best combat drug," Stockholm said mildly, ruffling at his hair and beard. Ugh, that dust would be in there for weeks. And it would itch, too. At least it'd keep out the radfleas and radticks.

"Yeah? _Yeah?_" the bent syringe had been shaken loose of the Khan's swollen vein, and now a thin stream of blood was running down his arm. As the drugged-out raider roughly shoved his pistol into Stockholm's face, the trickle of blood continued down the Khan's hand, along the gun's barrel, a single drop forming precariously close to Stockholm's nose. "Keep running that mouth, asshole. How'd you get in here? Who let you in?"

"I let myself in, like the gentleman I am. Don't you hold doors open for yourself? It's a worthwhile habit."

The drop of blood came closer. "Like _hell_. All the ways in are trapped to shit. You couldn't have-"

"Walked the alternating zig-zag pattern of landmines at the entrance of Red Rock Canyon? Or seen the red-dyed tripwires crisscrossing the rockwall, had I tried to shimmy around the mines? Or the ten foot moat with the stakes, each one at an exact eighty five degree angle? Or dodged the hollow blinds in the cliffs where you keep snipers posted, day and night, on a four hour cycle?" As Stockholm ticked off one level of defense after the other on his fingers, the Khan's gun slowly lowered until it hung at his side limply. "Well, I could have, but I didn't. I practically walked up the side of the canyon. Which was completely unguarded, aside from some fucking annoying dust. Fuck." Stockholm spat in the fire.

One of the other Khans drunkenly holstered her submachine gun, squinting at Stockholm and scratching at her green mohawk. "Wait, hold up, ain't you... Stock? Ain't you dead?"

"I'm going to take a wild guess and assume you're new here," Stockholm muttered, burying his head in his hands. Damn oh damn, how the mighty have fallen. "But we can play musical chairs and the name game later. Is Regis still alive?"

* * *

Regis was still alive, actually, so Stockholm's day could've been worse- but that's not saying much. The old tribal stopped cleaning his shotgun when he saw Stockholm trudging up the hillside, first looking puzzled, then shocked, then somehow... satisfied, as the grizzled man pushed threw the flaps of the yurt.

"What the fuck, Regis, I mean, what the fuck."

The Khan tucked the long gun under his pillow. Hadn't changed at all. "Good to see you too, Stock. Took you long enough."

"What happened? Everyone's gone. Ghost town is an understatement. There is nothing here." He sat down next to Regis' small fire, unlacing his boots and upturning one at a time, fascinated at the sandstorms' worth of dirt that streamed out. And then started coughing in the red dust, like an idiot.

"The _NCR_ happened, buddy." Regis held out a cracked bowl full of faded Buffout tablets, but Stockholm waved it away, still hacking dryly. "Bitter Springs happened, to be specific. But you weren't there to see it."

"I had things to do," Stockholm rasped, staring at Regis intently as the boots went back on.

He held up for a few seconds, but Regis finally broke away from Stockholm's dead-eyed gaze. Worse than looking at the sun, really. Doesn't give you the spots, but makes you feel empty inside. "I know. I don't resent you for leaving." Stockholm knew that was a lie. Or maybe he wanted it to be.

"Well, that makes one. I oughtta carve you a medal. It will be in the shape of my face, hysterically weeping tears of joy."

With a chuckle, Regis set a scuffed shot glass of a gold and red liquid on the rug in front of Stockholm, who looked at it sceptically. "It's not bad. Not good, either," he warned as Stockholm took a shot and abruptly began coughing.

"So. Did they follow you all the way out here, from Shady Sands? Hunt you down? Kill the weak ones, make the strong ones sharecroppers?"

"Nothing that dramatic. When Simon and I founded this camp, we were a hundred strong and growing. It wasn't even going to be our base- just one camp of many as we moved east. But then came the bear, hungry as ever." He took a shot, wiping his mouth. "And then things became interesting."

"Somehow, I doubt your definition of 'interesting' and mine aren't_ quite_ the same."

Regis shrugged his broad shoulders. "They didn't piss in our wells, we didn't piss in theirs. Hell, some were almost friendly, coming to us for chems, but then their merchants came for the recipes. Bastards were persistent as all hell- always showing up with those caravan guards waving their rifles in everyone's face. But we didn't cave in." He poured whiskey, bighorner blood, and something white from a vial into his shotglass, mixing it expertly.

"Buuuuut?"

"But, their settlers came closer to our camps. Kept trying to fuck us over in trades, you know, with those NCR dollars made from unrolled cigarette paper. There was tension. Some new blood tried to steal a bucket of brahmin shit from a rancher one day, got a buckshot enema for his trouble, and everything went downhill from there." He gulped down the brew, the sticky white stuff sliding along the inside of the glass. "Guess shit really does roll downhill."

Stockholm sighed. That was really all it took- one fuck up, by chance or not, and suddenly it was total war. This happened all the time between raider bands, merc factions- why should it be different for the NCR? "And then they wiped out all camps, one by one, except for this one. Am I right?"

"Long story short, yeah. They wanted us gone- went after the women, children, everyone. It's a good thing you helped us set the traps and blinds up. Without them, we'd be dead."

And that'd have saved Stockholm a whole lot of trouble. He took Regis' shotglass and began to juggle. "I'm going to talk to Simon."

"We call him Papa Khan, now."

Stockholm blinked and dropped the shotglasses, shattering them across the floor. "For_ fuck's sake_."

"And more importantly," Regis continued, brushing the broken glass off the rug, "there's a Legion ambassador trying to kiss his ass, calls himself 'legatus' or some shit. Watch yourself around him. The NCR may be bad, but the Legion, that's a whole other sack of Cazadores."

Eyebrows rising, Stockholm almost smiled. This was going to get his kind of interesting.

* * *

But before that, he couldn't help himself. Scampering down the rocks, Stockholm approached the Great Khan arena- slowly, though. Carefully. The way you approach a beast you haven't seen in a long time, that may not remember you. Or like you.

He ran a hand down the massive tree-trunk sharpened into a stake, remembering whittling it himself. He, Regis and Simon had built this arena all by themselves. Anointed this sand with their sweat. He should feel something, some sort of nostalgia- but he doesn't. Because he knows, in his heart, it's just sticks and sand. An empty Old World relic.

What a damn idiot he had been, thinking that the Khans would change.

* * *

Though he really should have expected it, the guards at the door of the longhouse didn't recognize Stockholm, either; after pointing out that his name was Stockholm and helped build the Red Rock Canyon camp, they still stood there impassively, hands on hips. It was only when Stockholm challenged the guards to a duel in the arena below did someone finally come out of the longhouse to shut the three up.

"The fuck is going on-" the bearded Khan stopped and stared at Stockholm for a solid second. "Holy shit. Stock. You're-"

"Greene, hello to you too, boy. Someone here has a sense of etiquette, at least," Stockholm said cheerily as the doorman chewed out the guards.

Greene waved in Stockholm, closing the door behind them. "Stock, I... I thought you were dead. Everyone did."

The old man looked at the young one, thoughtful. Amazing how people grow up. The last time he was here, Greene's voice was still cracking from puberty, not a hair on his balls. Now look at him. A full grown man, ready to have his life thrown away for whatever cause he chose. "Me too. Funny how that works." He took a few steps into the longhouse, marveling at how nothing had really changed- the wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards creaked, smoke from the fireplace had put a rather ugly gray layer over everything- all just how he remembered. The smell from the family of suckling nightstalkers dressing the table was both nauseating and mouthwatering. He could go for a non-human bite right now...

"You seem surprised it's still standing."

Stockholm pulled his gaze down from the smoky rafters only to look up again, this time at a monster of a man crowned in a horned helmet. Shaggy beard, intense eyes, permanent frown. Yeah, that was him. There was a scraping of chair legs as the rest of the Khans in the longhouse stood in synch with their leader.

"Simon, when I left this place, I expected to find a crater when I came back, knowing how you do things."

The other tribals stiffened, but Simon- Papa Khan, to them- only gave a barking, humorless laugh. "Give me some credit. It would be a burning, irradiated crater, full of our half-dead mutant selves."

They could jest all they want, but Stockholm felt it- the chasm between them that drove him away in the first place. He suddenly had an urge to leave the room. But then he realized that someone else had been sitting at the head of the table with Papa Simon. Someone wearing too much red.

"Who is this?" There was nothing jesting in the tone.

"Our ambassador, Stock. We're going to war with the NCR, to take back what is rightfully ours." Simon gave the man a nod, and he rose from his seat.

"Ave. My name is Legatus Karolus, of Caesar's Legion. Good day to you."

The game has changed. "Ave, et die bona tibi. Nomen mihi Stockholm."

Karl rose an eyebrow, and the other tribals looked at Stockholm as though he had torn off a mask to reveal the Mojave's most polite deathclaw. "It is not every day one not of Caesar's banner speaks the tongue of Mars. Where did you learn?"

"Flagstaff, ubi omnes coeperunt," Stockholm intoned, "but that was long ago, before you were born. Meliore tempore." He looked to Papa Khan, the gathered Khans, then back to Karl. "Has Caesar found it fitting to call upon the might of the Great Khans of Red Rock?"

The ambassador's face was smooth and composed, but from the way he crossed his arms... "That is yet to be decided," he said, sitting back down. Papa Khan did the same, as did all the other Khans. Stockholm had to wade through the anxiety in the air to stand at Karl's side of the table.

"We have things to dicuss. I haven't seen the standard of the bull in too long," he declared, slapping his hand on the table. "I pray it flies proudly next to that of the Khans!"

Karl smiled. A tight smile. "Indeed."

* * *

The stars didn't change, but they didn't need to. They just were. Lived, and died. What more could a human being aspire to?

Stockholm looked over his shoulder the sound of boots on graveled sand. Simon sat down next to him, and they both stared up into the night sky, not saying a word.

"Regis told me. NCR, Bitter Springs. I shouldn't have left."

Simon cracked his knuckles idly. "No, you shouldn't have. But that's the past."

Brutal honesty. That's what made Stockholm stick around the Khans in the first place. Could use more of that in a world like this, where lies and truth were the same price.

"I see that nothing has changed," Stockholm brought up pointedly. He didn't even have to fake the bitterness in his tone.

"Things are worse than ever. We thought House and NCR would tear each other apart, but they only turned their attention to us. That makes us the last arm of the horde."

_Us. There is no us. There is me. There is you. Simon, you still haven't learned anything._ "And the Legion?"

"We took an offer from this bastard, Benny-" Stockholm looked at Simon incredulously. He had always assumed the two Khans with Benny had been working on their own. Shit. _Grating cunts indeed._ "But he stabbed us in the back. We don't have anywhere to turn, now."

"This war is just beginning," Stockholm uttered. "I have ten years of work to do here, Simon. And a lot can happen in ten years."

A chortle, a friendly cuff on the shoulder."Determined as ever."

_No, Simon. More determined than ever before. You'll see. Even if you grow blind, I will make you see._

* * *

"Ave, Karolus!"

The man gave a start, and looked back at a smiling Stockholm. "Ah, Stockholm. Ave." He finished his piss in the latrine and zipped up his trousers. By Caesar, this man had the most horrible timing...

"Please. My friends call me Stock. Duis est."

"Sic erit, and my friends call me Karl. Yesterday, within the longhouse, you mentioned-"

"Yes, yes!" Stockholm clapped his hands together. "Please, walk with me." He cleared his throat, aware of the Legionnaire's sidelong gaze. The man didn't trust him. Didn't blame him. "Recruitment. You see, as an ambassador, you understand how important it is to maintain good relations with factions across the Mojave. But I wonder, when you are strangers to this land, how can you expect to know who to ally with?"

"A reasonable question," Karl responded carefully. "As you probably know, scouts are dispatched across the area of interest-" Conquest, you mean, you fuck- "And the factions at play are observed. The Legion then sends a legatus such as myself-"

"But Karl! Even the sharpest of scouts may overlook that which takes years to see." Stockholm tapped at his forehead. "Something even I have seen only recently."

Karl narrowed his eyes. "Incedunt, Stock."

"Underneath the Mojave, there are vaults that were meant to protect the unworthy from the fire of Mars- pitiful structures. As you have guessed, they failed- but the shells of them remain, and are ingeniously hidden. One of such belongs to the secret society we know only as the Fiends."

Karl sniffed derisively. "So _secret_ that you found them?"

"Pulchrum satis. But by chance, I came upon these soldiers, and I've never met anyone quite like them. They live underground, training with their fists, bows and blades, having forsaken the gun, one day hoping to beat back the NCR. I'll assume that S... ah, Papa Khan has told you of the NCR's attempts to control the region. They fought with the Fiends, and failed. I didn't believe it. But in close quarters, they had prevailed, and since then, they've been training for the sole purpose of countering the NCR. In the past, however..." Stockholm stopped. They had walked to the edge of the arena, and lost in thought, he stared at all the footprints in the sand. Wondered how many of those footprints belonged to those still alive. Morbid thought.

"However?"

"The Khans and the Fiends had fought before. Years ago, before my lifetime, and Papa Khan is a traditionalist, refuses to side with them despite that we fight the same enemy. He calls them chem abusers, cannibals, pedophiles, any insult he can think of. Do you understand? You must go to them. Their leader, Motor-Runner, will always accept a guest."

Karl was nodding to himself, his arms crossed. "I appreciate your counsel."

"But here." Stockholm removed his sunglasses and handed them to Karl. "Wear these as you present yourself to the guards, and they will know I sent you."

"And I am to leave Red Rock Canyon without an answer from Papa Khan?"

"He's my- I mean, he's like a younger brother to me," Stockholm admitted. "We don't always see eye to eye, but I can make him see reason. With you gone, the people will speak freely, and we will know who to remove in order to join Caesar's ranks. Now, this vault is only a quarter day's journey away," he explained, pointing at the mouth of the canyon. "Do you have a map?"

Of course he did. Stockholm marked down the location.

"The way isn't dangerous, but if you are worried, I can travel with yo-"

"There's no need, but thank you all the same," Karl said, maybe a little too quickly. Those Legionnaires, always so uptight about pride.

Stockholm bade Karl goodbye and walked back to the longhouse. When he looked back, he saw Karl staring through the mouth of the canyon.

* * *

Karl was frumentarii.

Fast, quiet, intelligent, resourceful. The best the Legion had to offer.

Stockholm smiled to himself, hidden within one of the shooting blinds carved into the cliffside.

But he was young.

Stockholm watched from the clifftop as Karl easily sneaked past the Khan's front guard, skipping over the moat, capering through the minefield, and then lowering his stance and sprinting like a bullet across the sand, straight toward Vault number 3, and the beasts that dwelled within.

And for the young, they have yet to learn that their reach exceeds their grasp.

* * *

There wasn't much left of him. Charred bones, the melted flesh pooled around his body. You don't forget that smell- burnt hair, burnt nails. Smells... wrong. Not like death. Death was natural. This was just wrong.

Stockholm ran a hand down his face, his eyes widening with realization. "Oh, _shit_... no..." He looked at Simon, shoulders tensing with bottled fury. "This is my fault. Damn it. Damn it!"

"What do you mean?" Though the way he said it, Simon may as well have said "Explain right now or I'll fucking pry your ribcage apart with a rake".

"Karl... he asked about Diane and Jack, about the chems they make. Their combat effectiveness, the addiction rate, all that. I told him that I had this idea, right, to poison the chems we sold to the NCR merchants- as a way to weaken them! It was perfect... but then he asked if anyone else bought our chems. I brought up the Fiends-"

Simon's frown grew deeper, if that were possible. Into the grimace of a corpse. "And you didn't you stop him why?"

"Shit, I didn't think he would go_ alone!_ The men at the longhouse said that he was just 'doing Legion business', and when they said that, I..."

Simon's teeth were gritted so hard, you could hear them cracking. "That's enough."

"Simon, don't be like this with me. Listen, I-"

"I said_ that's enough!_" Simon spun to face Stockholm, towering over his old friend by more than a foot. "We'll talk about this later, but from now on, _you call me Papa Khan._ Understood?"

Stockholm looked away, angry at Simon, at Karl- but mostly angry at himself. The other Khans occupied themselves with looting the surrounding dead Fiends, pretended not to notice as one of their greats was utterly humiliated.

"So maybe I fucked up, Khan, but we can fix this! I'll go to their camp, talk to a centurion, I'll-"

The punch caught him by surprise, and Stockholm stumbled backwards, tripping over rubble and tumbling onto his back. He just laid there, gasping and clutching at his chest.

"No, you won't. Get out of here, Stockholm. You never should've come back."

So they left him there, curled amid the corpses in the style of an excommunicated Khan, struggling for air.

Because, after all, he was laughing so hard he couldn't breath.

* * *

_You are blind._

Stockholm crouched by the liquified corpse of what had been Karl, and from the face of the skull, gently pulled away a pair of sunglasses scratched and scuffed beyond repair.

_I will make you see._


End file.
